


I'm Trying My Best

by Iwrteficsnottragedies



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Death Eater Draco Malfoy, Depressed Draco Malfoy, Depression, Good Draco Malfoy, Musician Draco Malfoy, Other, Sad, Singing, Song fic, this is an excerpt from another book I'm writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2019-09-22
Packaged: 2020-10-26 07:53:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20738801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwrteficsnottragedies/pseuds/Iwrteficsnottragedies
Summary: The guitar was an ordinary brown, wooden, acoustic guitar. It was his secret not because he feared what his father would do to him if he found out, but because it felt too personal to share. When he would glide his fingers over the soft strings and feel the soft hum like a thousand melody's singing to him all at once.





	I'm Trying My Best

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be connected to the events before my other books Under My Skin. However, you can mostly read it without confusion if you haven't read the other. The song in this chapter is Trying My Best by Anson Seabra if you want to listen while reading. 
> 
> Also, set in fourth year.

Draco loved the quiet days, the ones of still moments and silent clocks. He loved the random sounds that came sailing in the breeze; the birdsong came so sweetly, almost tangible as if it were softly spun sugar. He would sit there upon the clouds that were his dreams until, as the ones above are so prone to do, they condensed to form the random ideas that quench his mind. It was on those quiet days that ideas came as natural things do - from the sunshine, rain, and earth. 

Draco glanced down at the peaceful world below him from the window. The spring days were usually spent in the garden when he was little with no cares in the world. Just him and Bramble. He would plant runner beans, courgettes and more. There were the days of bright sunshine, blue skies that sung of the summer to come; there were the days of cloud-filtered rays, the ones that made the world so cozy. There were the days it began to rain, and instead of dashing inside they stayed in the garden to dance, to taste that feast of water.

Draco felt like he could simply close his eyes and he'll be transferred back in time to when everything was peaceful. When Bramble would take care of him and bake him sweet, gooey pastries and lemonade as he rambled on about whatever new book he had been reading in the autumn breeze. Before the war and he has deadset on trying to please his father. Before the Dark Lord had placed the horrified mark that lingered on his skin like a snake before pouncing. 

Before everything fell away from him. 

Draco tried to imagine it all from his soft enclosure at the top of the tallest tower at Hogwarts. The small octagon room, no more than a couple feet big, with windows from the pointed peak to floor. Pillows and blankets he had dragged up here over the years flittered over the soft green benches near the walls. Despite the close proximity, he had everything he needed up here. Including a tiny shelf with one of the only things that brought calm to his hectic soul. 

The guitar was an ordinary brown, wooden, acoustic guitar. It was his secret not because he feared what his father would do to him if he found out, but because it felt too personal to share. When he would glide his fingers over the soft strings and feel the soft hum like a thousand melody's singing to him all at once.

He would twist his fingers in all sorts of odd shapes to form chords around the maple wood fretboard and once or twice, would slide his hand up across the higher frets. The sweet refrain of the acoustic guitar spoke a musical language to his soul. The strumming sound had a hypnotic soothing quality that he craved. To lose himself to the melody of the guitar was his idea of a heavenly afternoon.

And so, he grabbed the heavy wood and placed it in his lap. It's was satisfying in the hand and its tones were rich and full. Music fills the air without effort, like the waves filling holes in beach sand. Without meaning too, the lyrics of the song he had been working on poured out of him. 

"I know you think I got it all figured out but 'cause  
I walk around like my head's in the clouds but  
I'm just boy with his heart pourin' out  
Of his head  
I wish that you could see the pain that I've seen and  
All of the time I spent being not me and  
I hope you know it's not always happy  
In my head."

He still hadn't perfected all the lyrics. He hardly did. That meant the song would be over and he would be sucked back into the harsh world he called reality. And he didn't want that.

"'Cause I don't know  
The perfect road to go down  
But I know"

Draco only wished he could find beauty like everyone else did. Like his parents do. It would make his life much easier if he was ignorant of the world. He really tried. Goddamit it, he really tried. That's all he ever did. But instead, he found it in the beauty of moments like this. Where his only ignorance was when he would run out of words to string together. That day never seemed to come. 

"I'm trying my best  
I'm trying my best to be okay  
I'm trying my best but every day  
It's so hard  
And I'm holding my breath  
I'm holding my breath til' I can say  
All of the words I want to say  
From my heart"

There are times it feels as if the music is teaching his brain how to flow, how to be so peaceful. It's as if the slowly changing tone touches different parts, a sort of auditory massage for Draco's mind. It is an invitation for slowness and to feel the presence of himself, the ever-patient version of him who waits to be spoken to and is content to do so. 

"If you really want to I could let you inside  
It's been so long and I've got nothing left to hide  
Would you believe if I told you that I've  
Got flaws"

Life seems to go on without effort when he was filled with music. Perhaps that was part of the reason he loved it. He didn't have to wrestle himself free of the intoxicating darkness just in the hopes to see the sunrise of tomorrow. 

"Now it's time to let the curtains unfold and  
Tell the stories that I didn't want told yeah  
Let it out and I unburden my soul  
Won't stop"

When he wasn't singing or tapping his fingers to some kind of beat, he felt empty. He felt words weren't simply enough to fill it. They were to overused to be trustworthy and all your false confidence and empty promises go down with it. Of course, when you're empty; where's your safe harbor, away from the gales and the storms? Where is the fuel you need to fill up? Do you pause for love, healthy food and vibrant bouquets of dreams? 

"'Cause I don't know  
The perfect road to go down  
But I know..."


End file.
